


Collision

by mech



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Depression (later), M/M, Mental Illness, Panic Attacks, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, eye gore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-10-05 21:45:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10317626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mech/pseuds/mech
Summary: The red headed boy let out a noise of complaint, wiggling his arms once two of the knives pinned his shirt sleeves down. But that wasn't his main source of distraction, oh no. A sound seemed to carry over the wind, just a murmur, and Yata slightly strained his head to the side to try and hear it.(so y'all know that scene at the very beginning of return of the kings when yata dodges that knife?well. he doesn't quite make it).





	1. Distraction

It only took him one second of distraction for the idiot not to spot the third knife in time.

Fushimi was always constantly pushing Yata in battle- in fact, it was a regular old routine for them to egg on each other daily. This night in particular, however, seemed the most comfortable to their particular ex-friend rivalry. 

The city lights above him melded into a blur of neon brilliance, nearly causing Fushimi to let loose a laugh as he spun through the city chasing Yata. Typically, their fights were more aggressive, but this one was more of a dance. Familiar. To the both of them.

He searched around, and a grin split his face at the challenge, calling out for the other in his most mocking, candy-sweet tone.

" _Mi-sa-kiiiiii~_.."

Hearing a small 'Tch!' from the side, Fushimi spun without hesitation, throwing one, two, three knives, all in Misaki's direction.

The red headed boy let out a noise of complaint, wiggling his arms once two of the knives pinned his shirt sleeves down. But that wasn't his main source of distraction, oh no. A sound seemed to carry over the wind, just a murmur, and Yata slightly strained his head to the side to try and hear it. 

Fushimi could only watch in slow motion, horrified as his third knife continued on towards its unintentional target. Misaki knew his fighting style better than anybody, what the hell was he thinking?! Fushimi's lips parted to shout, but only a small, choked noise came out. 

And then, it was too late.

The knife went into Misaki's left eye with a resonating _thunk_ , and Fushimi didn't think that he would ever be able to look at a plate of jello without feeling sick ever again.

Yata- _Misaki_ let out a scream as he crumpled towards the ground, the two knives in his shirt holding him suspended against the wall like a rag doll. Fushimi swore, dropping the sword he had drawn and sprinting over to him.

Yata tried to shove him away at first, letting out another loud cry of pain, as he gave up the effort to clutch his heavily bleeding eye instead. Fushimi quickly pulled the knives out of his sleeves and grabbed his shirt, trying to tug him away to seek medical help.

Again, the other fought against him. Gritting his teeth, Fushimi simply picked up Yata with a grunt, in a fireman carry across his shoulder. 

"Saruhiko you fucking-! You..damn traitorous bastard how _could_ you how could-..." He beat against Fushimi's back with the fist that wasn't clutching his eye, red aura flickering fervently in shocked pain.

It burned a little bit. The burn felt good. It kept Fushimi focused as he jogged out of the alleyway, down and across the street. Yata made awful noises, horrible, throaty sobs as he cursed Fushimi out the entire way there.

'There' meant his closest clan member, which, in ordinance to Fushimi's ongoing nightmare of a day, happened to be Mikoto. Mikoto and Munakata, who were both staring at him, and the groaning Yata on his shoulder, in shock.

"Fushimi. Set him down." Munakata ordered quickly, eyeing Mikoto with an air of rising panic. His sword lowered instantly, and he swiftly glanced to the side.

Fushimi couldn't understand why until he followed the gaze to Mikoto, and saw the king's eyes boring a hole through him. He took a step forwards, and the pavement almost seemed to turn into actual lava beneath his feet. Fushimi who had never, _ever_ seen him that angry before, took one last glance at the now-limp Misaki.

After a moment of deliberation, he set the other down carefully, and walked until he was safely positioned behind Munakata, trying to ignore the rolling feeling of his stomach.

Mikoto stared him down darkly, but Munakata took a step in front of Fushimi, meeting the red-hot glare with an even frown, and a clipped, urgent tone of voice.

"Yatagaratsu needs to be taken to a hospital. I assume that our clan affairs can wait until another night."

The air temperature was rising noticeably from Mikoto's anger, and Fushimi resisted the urge to scratch at the mark on his chest. The flames that made up Mikoto's aura rose even higher, towering far above, before shortly disappearing altogether.

The red haired man gave a stiff nod that looked almost painful, strutting over to Yata and scooping him up. He held the other to his chest just like a little kid, but his face was unreadable as he whipped around without warning, striding off.

Although his expression had been forcibly neutral in the past few seconds, Fushimi wasn't fooled at all. Mikoto's boots left scorch marks in their wake when he walked, and before Fushimi could even think about trying to follow, he found Munakata's death grip on his shoulder.

Fushimi could remember, vividly, his own king questioning about his potential allyship with a certain Yata Misaki. That was before he had ever seen the two of them go at each other's throats, back when he trusted Fushimi's opinion on all things Yata, always.

(Not that he would trust it after tonight).

Distantly, Fushimi was aware of Munakata speaking to him in the present, voice forcibly calm as he attempted to get to the bottom of it all.

Fushimi felt none of it. The air was too cold, now that Mikoto and Yata were both gone, and a gurgling laugh escaped his throat, fighting down the hyperventilation to plaster on a twisted smile instead.

Munakata's voice is clear to him now, and it distinctly repeats the same question on stereo, furrowing his brows.

"Was it on purpose?" He asks Fushimi, staring down at him like an insect with his cold, blue eyes. It sounds like it's coming from underwater, sand washed up under the ocean.

"I don't know," replies Fushimi, with another sick laugh- and then he is sick, ripping his shoulder out of Munakata's grip and hurling on the nearest wall. His king watches him, but he does not offer him any form of comfort.

Not yet.

Fushimi throws up part of the apple he had for lunch and then some. For the rest of the night he is alarmingly resigned from the world, caught up in his own mental chassis. Not one word, excluding the inevitable _thunk_ playing on repeat in his mind, penetrates into his thoughts, no matter how much comfort his pathetic clan 'family' offers him.

They give him a ride blanket back to HQ, and he is bundled under an unnecessary shock blanket. The entire time, he ignores everybody. It's only after he's been dropped off does he eventually respond, although it takes some prodding on someone else's part.

"Fushimi.." Aweshima begins, unsure of how to proceed when he won't even meet her eyes.

 _Go away_ , he thinks, hunched over in one of the chairs at Scepter 4 headquarters. Somebody has draped a blue blanket over his back, but for whatever reason, he doesn't decide to shrug it off.

Scepter 4's second in command straightens up, resting a hand on her hip. She eyes him like a hawk, and speaks determinately.

"Fushimi-kun. I am ordering you to go rest. Understood? And then I am ordering you to care for your own personal health, for the sake of our clan."

Wait.

"What."

Saruhiko grimaces at how it sounds coming out of his mouth, but he honestly can't do much more than squint up at Awashima incredolously as she crosses her arms.

"You heard my orders. And you're not going back to work for another couple of days. Captain's orders."

He wants to ask her why.

He wants to go kicking and screaming and demand how exactly a couple of scratches compares to potentially murdering HOMRA's personal vanguard, Yata Misaki.

But he doesn't.

Fushimi stands, suddenly, giving her a jerky nod of his head. Her eyes widen in confusion, but by that time he's already moved away, striding down the empty hallway towards the cold Scepter 4 dorms.

His room is barren of all personal objects, except for the papers on his desk, and the spare knives laying on his bedside table. The entire layout is detached, it soothes his aching chest.

(..He scratches it anyways).

Old habits die hard.

Mostly, Fushimi just wants to sit in his bed and stare at the wall, however, before he can begin the wall staring, a buzzing sounds from his back pocket.

Ah. He forgot that his PDA was there.

Cautiously, Saruhiko pulls it out, swiping across the screen and staring at the name at the top of it.

\--  
Totsuka:

Yata-chan is going to be okay!! I thought that you would want to know.

Accidents happen, Fushimi-kun.

\--

A brutal laugh escapes his chest at the message, and he tosses his PDA at the wall, forcing a fake grin of savage delight at the harsh noise it makes.

Accidents.

A knife in Yata's eye, and somehow Totsuka is still trying to reassure him, still aiming to offer him the benefit of the doubt.

The mention of Misaki has him let out a long hiss of air through his teeth, fighting the rising feelings of panic and guilt which threaten to consume him.

_Misaki, age eleven, going head-to-head against some dumb idiots, and getting his ass kicked in front of Fushimi._

_Misaki, age thirteen, trying to convince him to sleep over 'just one more night Saru!! I know your parents can be kind of-'_

_Misaki in the grass, taking pictures of him 'just for kicks'. Misaki, stealing his food off his plate, and forcing him to eat twice as much. Misaki, joining HOMRA, and drifting, crying, standing in the alleyway, he turns his head, but the knife hits his forehead this time and-_

Fushimi swears and shakes his head, balling his hands into fists.

It was his job to engage HOMRA. And by all technical definitions of the word, he did engage.

Rolling over onto his side, Fushimi vaguely wonders if he should strip out of his uniform. 

Quickly, it is evident that his fingers are shaking too hard to undo the buttons.

(He sleeps in blue).

...(It's a long night).


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The blurry sight of something hanging down from outside of his window.
> 
> (in which fushimi fails to cope)

Fushimi is thirty minutes late for work and he still can't bring himself to open his front door.

It's ridiculous, how incompetent he feels at achieving such a simple task. He spent the entire three day weekend holed up in his room, eating like a mouse and hacking into the websites of large corporations. In his mind he comes up with purposes for the wasted time, but to be frank, hacking has become something of a soothing task for Fushimi. It reminds him of past years, the ones where him and Miskai used to cause havoc for the 'greater good'.

"Idiot," He grits out bitterly, forcing himself to pull on and fasten up his jacket for Scepter 4. In his opinion, they were just stupid kids back then, trying to be heros. Misaki himself had the hero complex and moral judgement of some kind of fierce anime protagonist. Fushimi on the other hand just went along with his silly whims, anything to keep him happy.

The sight of his own knives on the dresser made Fushimi's fists clench, but he made himself grit his teeth and bear it. Putting on the knife holster made him feel nauseous, but it wasn't the same as having actually watched the closest person ever to him get stabbed in the eye. 

In remembrance, he reaches up to touch his own eye, imagining the sheer agony. If he hadn't made Mikasi a complete mortal enemy before, this sealed the deal. It wasn't as pleasing of a thought as it usually would be.

He pulled on his gloves with a small grunt and swung open his door, only to be met with the sight of Munakata, hand raised to knock, looking startled on the other side. "Fushimi." Munakata stated, overtly formal. Somehow, it still sounds like just as casual of a tone as usual. 

"I have need of assistance. If you're feeling up to it." Fushimi could feel his features contort in annoyance, and he crosses his arms in response, leaning back. Classic Munakata, assuming that Fushimi actually cared about the dreary humdrum of everyday life. His mind flicked to the feeling of Misaki's wet face buried in his shoulder. 

No strong feelings at all.

"Why wouldn't I be capable of working? Focus on my job." Fushimi scoffed, stepping out into the hallway and shutting the door behind himself. Munakata was dressed the same as every other day, with his long blue coat and glasses perfectly in place. Not a strand of his hair ever seemed off, and the effect of the captain's attention to detail was not lost on Fushimi.

HOMBRA tended to be a messy place, ridiculously unorganized into pointless little turfs and gangs that fought hand in hand to keep each other in check. Kusanagi kept some of the members in order, but his sheer brand of apathy made Fushimi want to vomit. All of the clan members had spent their time socializing in a bar, and fighting stupid fights. Misaki had been in the middle of it all, a burning, yet idiotic flame.

That was why Fushimi had to leave in the first place. Lack of organization, ridiculously violent gang wars, and a best friend that wouldn't give him the time of day. Scepter 4 offered him separation, as well as every bit of antisocial interaction that he had ever dreamed. 

When he was little, his father had locked him in the closet, laughing about the 'cute little whines' of his 'saru'. It dripped from his mouth like acid in the dark, and ever since, Fushimi had never looked at small spaces the same. 

Now he had as much leisure to follow his King as he wanted, with none of the burning passion forced upon the members of the Red Clan. Munakata was still watching him, expression dull and serious. 

"Take your time, Fushimi. You didn't seem fit for work before. It's completely understandable given the circumstance, and I-"

"No." Fushimi interrupted, observing coolly. "The only circumstance was me doing my duty."

"Technically you mutilated your former fellow Red Clansman, not apprehended him like I ordered."

He tensed up slightly and forced himself to exhale, scowling crudely at his King. "Semantics." 

After a few seconds of silence, Munakata accepted the excuse and shrugged, turning on his heel and beginning to walk. 

"Come along then if you're well enough. But I do recommend a mental health day sooner than later..I have half a mind to order you to take one eventually."

Fushimi just rolled his eyes and trailed along after the King, raising his hand to shield his eyes from the bright light of the passing windows along the Scepter 4 dormitory. 

"The reason I came to find you was so that you could pinpoint a certain pattern for me. A strain has been attacking downtown, parallel to the border we share with HOMRA."

He felt unsurprised to hear the catch. "What specifically are the effects of the attacks?"

"The victim- or, well, victims, disappear. So far we have not been able to locate any, so I have personally classified this Strain as a level 4, arrest on sight."

Fushimi followed as Munakata led him into the common area, glancing around at his various coworkers distastefully. One opened his mouth in order to greet him, but Fushimi ignored it, keeping his eyes firmly fixed to Munakata's back as they passed. Far off in the corner, Awashima gave a slight nod of acknowledgement in his direction. She looked better than before, more powerful, even if she was still seething over the apparent new fingertip skirt-length rule.

Fushimi passed into the office, shutting the door behind himself, and standing with his weight on one leg so his right hip jotted out to express his underlying snark. 

"Pull up a chair." Munakata insisted, going to take his regular place in his own. Fushimi, like usual ignored the request, and chose to stand closer to the desk instead. He felt himself sway minutely in place and couldn't contain a frown at the slowly throbbing headache in his head. 

Somewhere, his mind pointed out that perhaps he should have eaten more. Of course, then Munakata misunderstood the expression and began to get right into the heart of things.

"The strain...Are you listening Fushimi?"

"Of course I am!" He snapped, swaying again with malice on his tongue. "Do you think that I'm an idiot?"

"You appear pale. Ashy-er than usual.." 

Fushimi could see the lights of the room swimming in front of him, and he tried to grip the desk, ignoring the black patches creeping into his vision. 

Munakata spoke again, but every word felt muffled, and the remaining blur he could see looked to be a mix of green and purple smears.

His body tipped back once more as he lost his grip, and the last thought Fushimi had before he hit the ground was that paperwork was going to be hell for this.

\---------------

When he woke up, Misaki was standing over his bed. 

It was only for a few seconds, not long enough to get his bearings before the other was gone again, but Fushimi found himself sitting up in alarm nonetheless, wondering whether it was his imagination if he had heard the door click close.

Looking around, it was easy to observe that he was in some sort of hospital room, which was ridiculous considering the simple reason for his fainting spell.

Then again, Munakata always did love to make a scene.

Reaching up, Fushimi could tell that there was a difference in his lips, which were no longer tingling like they had been before the spell. Low blood sugar, then. He touched the tube inserted into his arm, eyeing the IV it was attached to with disdain.

The door swung open, and Munakata himself strolled in, giving him a look that felt like a very irritating 'I-told-you-so'. 

"Hello, Fushimi. How are you feeling? You are looking better." He pushed up his glasses and tilted his head pointedly. Fushimi groaned

"Fine, Sir. Are you sure my placement here isn't just an overreaction?"

"Absolutely. Your health is important.." Munakata gave a little cough, glancing over again. "..Subsequently I insist that you must stay here for at least a day or two longer so that we can be absolute if your recovery."

"I don't have healthcare, Captain." Fushimi droned boredly.

"It's a company expense."

Munakata continued to stroll around the room for a minute to inspect it, before apparently deeming it safe and turning back towards Fushimi. His body posture looked more tense than usual, and the other wanted to curse himself for the impertinent question that leaped out from his mouth.

"Is the disappearing victim Strain still at large?"

Looking up at him curiously, he gave a short nod, taking his time to rest his hand down onto the bed frame. 

"Five more victims taken in the time in which you were out. It appears that the numbers are rapidly increasing, but for what reason Scepter 4 is still unaware."

"You can't take it down?"

"No." He answered shortly. "...It is on the border between our and HOMRA's territory, and relations are still somewhat.. tense at the moment. I will leave you to rest."

Giving Fushimi a pointed look on the final word, he exited the room. The other leaned back in exhaustion into the soft pillows supporting his back, unwilling to sleep, but wanting the rest dearly.

Fushimi's chest itched, and he reluctantly gave in to the urge to scratch it, letting out a sigh as he checked his PDA from his bedside. No new messages. After a few minutes of idly tweaking the settings of an old app, as well as starting two fights on Tumblr, he dozed off.

When he woke up, he once again had the strange sensation of being watched. There was a slight sweet smell from unwarranted chocolates (most definitely sent by Scepter 4), but otherwise nothing about the room was changed. Except. 

The blurry sight of something hanging down from outside of his window.

Anyone without as much of an attention to detail as Fushimi would have most likely missed it, however, during the time it took for him to scramble to adjust his glasses, 

He stood, pulling the IV with him as he walked, however, even looking upwards out of the window there was nothing to see.

_Am I seriously losing it._

Fushimi rubbed his eyes and shook his head, disappointed with the sudden, noticeable lack of knives on his person. His head informed him that hospitals probably wouldn't be the best for weapons, however, having managed to avoid hospitals altogether as a child, he wasn't very impressed.

He headed back to the bed to sit, looking over Totsuka's message again.  
Totsuka had always been ridiculously overpersonal with him, and insistent on keeping Misaki close. Whenever Fushimi tried to skip over any clan activity, Mikoto seemed uncaring. Totsuka on the other hand always gave his easy smile and a comment about how maybe he could come _next time._

Fushimi's intrusive thoughts wondered if Totsuka would contact him with more updates. They especially pestered him about whether Misaki would be able to ever skate again now that he probably had no depth perception.

_It was a typical Sunday afternoon of no school, and both Misaki and Fushimi were ignoring homework in their own ways._

_Fushimi was currently relaxing in the shade of the tree in Misaki's yard, while the other stood in the street, trying to figure out new tricks on his old skateboard._

_"Oi Saru, check this out!" He shouted, kicking up the board as he jumped. The landing was wobbly, but solid, and Fushimi deemed what must have been the hundredth trick he'd seen acceptable with his signature apathetic eyebrow raise._

_"That one looked as though you were trying to jump an ant pile." He remarked blandly, as Misaki gave a fist pump, skating alongside the curb._

_"Better an ant pile than a stick." Misaki pulled his eye down, and stuck his tongue out, interrupted when his board hit a rock and he stumbled off onto the ground._

_Fushimi was on his feet immediately, playing the moment again and again in his head and wondering if there was another response he could have given that would have prevented it from happening. He rushed to Misaki's side, but the other was just laughing , looking up from his somewhat scraped knee to flash a sheepish grin at Fushimi's face._

_"Guess I'll get some knee pads." He said, and the hiss of pain when he stood up was absolutely equal to the look on his face when Fushimi bought him a pair of pads for his knees exactly one week later._

It took a few seconds for Fushimi to notice that his nails were digging deeply into the skin of his opposite forearm, and he quickly relaxed them, inspecting the deep divots with a sense of wariness. He wanted his gloves back, firstly to help him notice the times where it got bad in the present, as well as to cover regretful mistakes from the past.

The nurse came in, and he gave her the chocolates from his bedside table. She flirted, he ignored, and tried to fall back asleep. 

(Unsuccessful attempt).

.  
..  
...

(They bring him water, and sleeping medicine, and for once he takes it).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry that took forever? wow
> 
> hey but, the plan for the next chapter is that it should drop quickly 
> 
> so stay tuned ;)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hospitals and DRAMA

In the crest of time between afternoon and night, Fushimi leaves his hospital room to go for a walk.   
  
He's not sure in what direction he's headed, slipping past nurses and patients alike to wander the halls. It's a desolate place after hours, what with the constant echo of workers clocking out for the day. It takes about ten minutes before somebody asks if he's lost, and then another five before they insist he return to his room. He's both slightly impressed and annoyed by this fact.   
  
When Fushimi returns, it's obvious that there is yet again the dark shape of something hanging down outside his window. However, now with his glasses on, it distinctly resembles a leg. He considers calling Munakata, just in case it's a lone strain. After all, he is unarmed.    
  
As always, his curiosity wins over first.   
  
Fushimi slides open the window, cautiously climbing out onto the firescape of the adjacent building. Never before has he been so grateful for long legs. When he looks up, he is expecting a monster, or a member of Scepter 4. He is not expecting to see a dejected looking figure, orange hair fluffed out without the ever-present beanie.    
  
"Misaki...?" The other's head snaps up, and he scrambles to his feet, a heavy angry flush eclipsing the top of his expression. One of his eyes has a patch over it, and he fervently smooths out the hospital gown.   
  
"What do you want, _Saruhiko_." Yata all but spits, balancing on the edge of the hospital roof. Fushimi wants to call him out on being an idiot, but for some reason all he can do is stare at the figure bathed in dusky, sunset pink.   
  
He knows that he must look ridiculous, eyes widened, mouth parted slightly in the residue of shock as he takes it all in. Whatever is in his face, it seems to shake Yata, who swings down and lands on the rail, as smoothly as ever. Fushimi puts his hand out to steady him anyways and it quickly gets slapped away.   
  
"Why are you in the hospital," He demands, watching Fushimi. "Did somebody injure you too?"   
  
Fushimi leans back with a sigh, and eyes him warily, giving a defeated shrug.    
  
"Myself."   
  
Yata's expression is unreadable, and it fills Fushimi with a heightened sense of anxiety. Misaki can't possibly pity him after everything that's happened in the last few days. Impossible, he concludes. The next question absolutely sends him reeling.    
  
"Did you mean to do it?" Yata asks, and his lower lip trembles, and suddenly Fushimi feels an aching pain in the middle of his chest.    
  
He crosses his arms defensively and looks away, trying to ignore the sudden tightness. "We were in the middle of battle." Yata's lip only trembles harder, and Fushimi thinks of how easy it would be to send him over the edge. To take out his fear- and dare he say guilt- by breaking Misaki. He swallows and waits patiently instead.   
  
"But you didn't think it would hit me. Blind me." Yata's voice has gone toneless, and it unnerves him into answering honestly for once. Crippling guilt could only render him useless for so long.   
  
"I did not." Fushimi states, and is met with a short exhale of relief. He looks up incredulously, wondering how the news could be relieving at all, and is met by Yata studying him furiously. Probably looking for an ulterior motive. He can't blame him.   
  


“Did you mean to hurt yourself?” The other demands next, and he resists letting out a short huff of laughter. From past experience, that form of self-deprecation has always made Misaki the most furious.

 

The question almost makes him feel sheepish, the way it’s posed. It poses a twinge of guilt to have Misaki scrutinizing him, looking for something to pity even after the horrible thing he’s done. Idiot. He doesn’t deserve the sympathy, or even the conversation. But like the selfish sap he is, Fushimi drinks in the attention, and revels in it. 

 

“Not particularly,” He lies with a shrug, before heading on to a partial truth. “Seeing that kind of injury would make anyone too sick to eat.” 

 

“You son of a bitch.” Fushimi simply shrugs at the insult, leaning back against the wall. Misaki leans forwards, and he finds his eyes trailing on the other’s bent feet, uncannily ready to catch him in case of a slip. He would never slip.    
  


This reminds him of the eyepatch over Misaki’s left eye, and he glances at it, wondering how much of a hindrance he’s caused. The other shifts uncomfortably, obviously aware of his gaze, and Fushimi’s eyes flick suddenly to the movement of his unkempt hair. It hasn’t been without the beanie since HOMRA, desperately in need of a cut. The vibrant ends curl around Misaki’s ears, and he finds himself wanting to run his fingers through it.    
  


His chest tightens, and for a second his vision blinks. By the time he’s back, he’s clutching at the rail and breathing heavily, while Misaki calls out his name. 

 

“Saruhiko?” It’s panicked, and Fushimi’s chest spasms again at the pain the familiarity causes. His fingers are trembling so hard shakes wrack up his arms. It’s like watching his body spasm, finally losing himself like he’s always suspected that he would. There’s the sensation of something touching him, a louder sound, but he can’t make himself unclench from the rail, his one lifeline. 

 

Misaki is in front of him now, calling out and trying to hold him up as he sinks down to the ground. The door from inside the hospital room bursts open, followed by lots of swearing once the nurse spots them on the balcony. All Fushimi can focus on is the feeling of Misaki’s fingers against his own, and the rolling of his stomach. 

 

It goes on for a long time, there’s the distance hissed exchange between Misaki and nurse in the background, before finally he starts to calm down, mortified and utterly exhausted. 

 

“Will you shut up?” He tries to demand to Misaki, whose head snaps up immediately at the weak croak. 

 

“Saruhiko!" What the hell was that? You scared me!” An odd feeling of satisfaction boils in his chest, but Fushimi shakes it off, electing instead to focus on the angry nurse in the window. 

 

“Panic attack.” He mutters, and Misaki’s brows furrow. The nurse looks satisfied, if still a bit pissed. 

 

“You’re both coming inside, right now.” She declares, pointing to the ground next to her. “And if I see any patients on the escapes again, I’m sedating them.” 

 

Fushimi sighs and begins to stand up, shooting Yata a glare when he takes it upon himself to help. Misaki, as always, ignores it. 

 

“Can she do that?” Yata whispers to him, and he simply shakes his head, slowly climbing back into the window on wobbly legs. Fushimi all but immediately collapses on the bed to sit once he’s inside. Misaki lingers near the window, watching hesitantly.

 

“What the hell is a panic attack? Does that happen to you Fushimi? You shut down!” The cloud of exhaustion urges him not to answer, which only seems to rile Misaki up more. He opens his mouth again to issue more harsh questions, but is interrupted by the sudden click of the window being shut, and the vice-like grip of the nurse. 

 

“Oh no, you’re not coming back here until he’s feeling better than ever, which won’t be soon thanks to you.” Yata’s vibrant aura flickers a little in frustration, but she pulls him out of the door, his wide-eyes easily evaded by Fushimi’s gaze. 

 

Once both of them are out of the room, he allows for himself to exhale a breath of relief, rubbing idly at one of his throbbing temples. Fushimi is nervous, at the idea of returning panic attacks. He used to have them in his home, whenever his father locked him in dark places. Sometimes he had them when his mother was home, which only served to make her angrily demand he stop.

 

It’s one of the manifested symptoms of his broken childhood, and he fears what the return of them might mean for his already crumbling mental state.  

 

_ Perhaps it was a fluke,  _ Fushimi hopes to himself. And he hopes, and hopes, and hopes.

 

Inevitably the nurse from earlier swings back by, both to check on him, and to deliver a severe berating. The latter he regards apathetically, with such intensity that she eventually sighs and relents, going through the usual well-check procedures. 

 

Blood pressure low, but only as low as usual. Blood sugar low, but not deadly. A stranger brings him a meal with way more sugar than he would usually consume, but under the medical staff’s scandalized gazes, he feels obliged to get most of it down.

 

By the time they leave him, it’s far after dark. Fushimi waits for a while for Misaki to show up, however he never does. A little while later, he becomes aware of the lock that they must have discretely fastened on his window. A small snort escapes him. Perhaps Misaki is also on suicide watch tonight. 

 

Sleep comes easily in the hospital bed, despite him trying to use the internet to dissuade exhaustion. He falls asleep with his phone in his hand, curled at an awkward angle with the food tray still propped on the other side of his legs.

 

When he wakes up, it’s with a short gasp, and he looks around in a hazy fear, body tense with adrenaline. The food tray is gone, and his phone is on the bedside table, so he has evitably been checked on. It only takes a minute to calm down, mostly because it’s dark, and he’s still somewhat in sleep’s clutches. 

 

Fushimi lays back down, tugging the blanket over himself as he closes his eyes. His glasses press uncomfortably into his cheeks, but before he knows it he’s out again. He’ll deal with the thick red skin lines later. 

 

It’s late morning when he wakes up next, and his nurse is bustling around his room. She doesn’t notice him until he sits up, tugging off his glasses, and rubbing at the skin there. 

 

“Hey there, nervous sleeper.” She greets, and he eyes her resentfully, trying to dissect the worse. Obviously she senses his confusion, because she straightens up, tapping the watch on her wrist. “Do you not remember? I guess you wouldn’t. Waking up two or three times that we saw, always panicked and on edge.” 

 

It chills him, and he slowly shakes his head, stifling a yawn. So more nervous symptoms that he can’t control. Fushimi immediately steels himself to try and escape the hospital as soon as possible.

 

Of course, just as the moment of truth approaches, Munakata ruins all of his plans like always by sauntering in. 

 

“A little birdy told me you talked to the firey boy last night.” He declares smugly, walking over to lean on the bedside table. Fushimi is already dressed and standing at this point, more than ready to exit. 

 

“So?” Fushimi responds defensively, glancing away. He resists to make the ‘tch’ noise like a petulant teenager, but it’s difficult. Judging by Munakata’s smirk, he can already tell. 

 

“Just as predicted, your alliance with HOMRA survives another trying time.”

 

His face scrunches up incredulously, and he stares at Munakata in disbelief. Munakata quickly holds up his hands in defence, gaze contemplative.

 

“Alright, maybe not all of HOMRA, but still.”

 

“Can we leave.”

 

Fushimi waits anxiously for the answer, and hates every ticking second that the Captain pretends to ponder it. He anticipates what the answer will be, but of course, as with speaking to all lunatics, nobody can know for sure what he’ll always say.

 

“Of course.” Munakata finally concedes, gracing him with another sly smile.

 

Fushimi angrily pushes past him, grumbling about his creepy face. Mostly he’s just embarrassed about his link to Misaki. Of course Munakata would be well-versed on their past history, but it really wasn’t anything special. Just two idiots trying to survive the worst years of their lives together. 

 

He finds himself waiting for the Captain at the front desk despite this, giving him time to catch up. Munakata is pocketing his phone before Fushimi even starts to notice it was out. He gestures for them to head out, and the streets are practically empty. 

 

They walk in silence on the bare cement, Fushimi subtly following Munakata’s lead. It turns out to be pointless, as the latter simply takes them in the direction of Scepter 1. Before they reach the actual building however, the captain turns, heading down a different street towards some shops. 

 

“Captain?” Fushimi questions. Munakata simply stands in front of a restaurant, bent over to squint at the menu posted outside. 

 

“It’s about lunchtime, so I figured we could find something to eat..” He lets out a sigh and reluctantly pulls out his phone, typing slowly. Fushimi represses a groan, waiting impatiently, and glaring in full force at the ground when Munakata finally succeeds.

 

“There’s a place down the street with good reviews, come on.” He cheerfully waves Fushimi along, and the other follows sullenly, silent as a ghost. That was one part he misses about HOMRA, being able to be ignored, even if it hurt like a bitch sometimes. In Scepter 1 there was no hiding, what with everyone being ridiculously polite. 

 

They stop in front of a fairly nice looking place, even with it’s pseudo-hipster vibe. Munakata regards it with an air of wonder. Fushimi cringes. It’s obvious that the elder wants to be hip, despite him acting like the pervy grandfather nobody ever wanted. 

 

They head in, sliding into a moderately comfortable booth. Within minutes, it quickly becomes evident that Munakata can fill any silence. He keeps up steady conversation, surprisingly, with no innuendoes attached. Fushimi isn’t exactly sure why the other is being so tame, but he’ll take what relief he can get.

 

He’s almost enjoying himself by the time he goes to use the bathroom. He takes a few minutes inside the stall to check his phone, before heading out to wash his hands. The figure facing away has auburn hair that he would recognize anywhere. 

 

“Misaki.” He finally forces out, tinged with exasperation. Fushimi is mostly just confused by his appearance, but he’d never show it. Yata turns around, regarding him with a strangely wide grin.

 

“Saru!” His voice bites out, harsh in delight. Fushimi is instantly on guard, scanning his surroundings. No sign of any other HOMRA members anywhere. Something about Misaki rubs him the wrong way, but he just stands there, waiting for the other to make a move.

 

Yata shifts forwards, placing a hand on his hip and leaning to the side. He looks comfortable, not at all tense as of late. Fushimi eyes him for any sign of alcohol or drug use. Nothing immediately sticks out, and during this time, Yata begins to step closer, dawning a smirk. 

 

“You’re wearing a pretty fucking sour expression,” He notes, and Fushimi sneers, leaning further back in spite of himself. 

 

“You think I’d be happy to see a brat like you?” He drawls coldly, and it finally strikes Fushimi, the reason why Misaki has him on edge.  _ He called me Saru _ . That’s never happened before. It fills him with a fear like nothing else, and an uncanny urge to run away.

 

“I don’t appreciate the new nickname. Don’t butcher my first name if you use it,  _ Misaki. _ ” If anything, Misaki looks even less impressed, crossing his arms and stepping, yet again, even closer. Their faces are only inches apart. He smiles.

 

It throws Fushimi off-guard, eyebrows furrowing as he tries to decipher what the strange reaction means.  _ Yata’s eyepatch is different from earlier,  _ He notices.  _ It just looks like cardboard and string. _

 

Yata’s other clothes are different than usual too, just a normal sweatshirt, and pants. It’s not a bad change necessarily, but it has Fushimi curiously peering down to Misaki’s wrist, checking to see if the watch he once gave to him is gone.

It is. 

  
He’s startled by a light touch on his jaw, and he jerks back ever so slightly, letting a hiss of air escape his teeth. 

 

“What do you think you’re doing.” He demands, unsettled by the impartial smile Misaki is still sporting. 

 

“A magic trick.” Fushimi just scoffs and pushes the other back, annoyed by his own disappointment at the answer. Yata has the audacity to look sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck before the slight smirk returns. 

 

“Right, of course you’re enough of a child to still be involved with games,” He sighs. “Honestly, I don’t understand how you followed me here at all, if you did.” Misaki doesn’t react at all, which is only slightly surprising. 

 

“Aren’t you going to ask what the magic trick is?” He pesters, reaching a hand up to grip the front of Fushimi’s uniform jacket. Fushimi scowls, rolling his eyes. He waits in silence for a few seconds, both of them locked into a silent stalemate before he relents.

 

“Fine,” He bites out. “Tell me what it is. If it’s trying to make me feel sorry for you, don’t worry, I’m sure half of the city is already there.”

 

Feeling the grip on his shirt tighten, Fushimi glances down, and feels his blood turn to ice when his eyes are met with ones that are ruby red. Yata’s face is apathetic and cold.

 

“To make you disappear.” 

 

He tries to jerk away, but the freezing feeling has encompassed his limbs, causing a dark tinge to edge his vision. Misaki, or not-Misaki in front of him releasing his shirt with a swift motion, standing back as his form starts to shimmer. There’s a confusing swirl of colors, and the sound of somebody yelling in the distance, but the last thing he remembers is a sharp pain in his head, and then everything goes completely black. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dun dun dunnnnnnn
> 
> (edit: i didn't revise this before i posted it and i accidentally left in 'sarumi' instead of fushimi's actual real name lmao. it's fixed now.)

**Author's Note:**

> stop me from hurting my faves 2k17
> 
> anyways, i haven't decided yet if the next chapter should be from fushimi's or yata's point of view. tell me what you guys think!
> 
> hope you enjoyed!


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